


Save One Good Thing

by amyfortuna



Series: Ninnachel [5]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon Compliant, Crying, Depression, Difficult Decisions, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Isolation, M/M, Nienna - Freeform, Not Happy, Prayer, Tears, a tiny horse figurine that represents hope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-05
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-21 08:41:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3685683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/pseuds/amyfortuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of the Battle of Sudden Flame, Fingon finds himself isolated except for his son, and then has to make the hardest decision of his life so far.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Save One Good Thing

**Author's Note:**

> **B2MeM Challenge:** [Noldorin Beleriand](http://b2mem.livejournal.com/279880.html?thread=5277768#t5277768): Gil-galad as Fingon's son. 
> 
> This story follows up on '[From The Wrack And Ruin](http://b2mem.livejournal.com/328326.html)', and therefore forms part of my [Ninnachel](http://archiveofourown.org/series/233058) series, though Ninnachel does not feature (as this story takes place before their life intersects with Fingon's in any way).

**Year 455 of the First Age**

It was over with the springtime. 

Everything upon the plains of what was once Ard-Galen was lost. From his battlements, Fingolfin could only see a vast desert where nothing stirred save smoke and anguished mists, where not one blade of grass now grew. Horses and men alike burned in the flames of that battle, sudden and swift, and there was nothing anyone could have done about it. 

Fingolfin's eyes, wide and fearful, betrayed his despair now. He walked about the walls like one dead, barely able to look at the land now destroyed, unable entirely to look away from it. He was only awaiting news; what had become of his nephews in the East? 

"Father," Fingon said quietly, laying a hand on his shoulder, "come away. We can only wait, but at least we need not look." Moving as if in a dream, Fingolfin let himself be pulled away from the walls of the citadel, inside where peace still reigned and no sign of destruction could be seen. 

"Is there any news?" he asked as they passed through the doors into the large hall of the palace. 

"Not yet," Fingon said, and looked at Fingolfin with eyes that spoke as well of fear and worry. 

At the other side of the long room, Gil-galad came running in, holding a small toy in his hand. "Ada!" he said, running toward Fingon, who immediately went to his knees and caught Gil-galad against him, giving him a long hug. By the time he raised his head again he was smiling, the fear and worry in his eyes faded somewhat. 

"What is it, little one?" he asked. 

As Gil-galad told Fingon about all the brave and noble deeds the little toy horse in his hand had performed that day, to Fingon's delighted inquiries and responses, Fingolfin watched them silently, sitting down on a nearby bench. He felt, in a strange way, disconnected, almost weightless, floating free beyond any restraint, as if his spirit was not quite in his body any longer. All he could see was greyness and sadness, and the two of them, laughing together on the floor, were the only bits of colour left, the only things that were not dark. 

The news came the next day, with the dusty grey dawn, and Fingolfin heard it in silence, alone in the great hall, eyes shuttered and cold. He seemed as though he was made of ice itself, he stood so still, straight and proud, as the reluctant words spilled from the messenger's lips. Lost, all lost, and Maedhros standing alone against a tide of flame and Orcs, Himring the last ground left unsullied, untaken. 

Wrath filled him, but it was a cold wrath, and in the early light he armed himself and went to the stables. Everyone there backed away from the light in his eyes as he took his horse, and rode out. But they immediately went to find Fingon, who rushed from the palace even as Fingolfin was leaving. 

"Father!" he shouted into the morning air, and the wind caught the word. Fingolfin paused, looking down at his son. 

"Do not follow me or let any other follow me," he said, and his words were spoken precisely, as though long planned. Then he reached out a hand, stroking Fingon's hair for the last time. "Farewell, beloved son." Fingon caught his hand as he withdrew it. 

"Whither go you?" he said. Fingolfin looked back and the light was strong in his eyes. 

"To do what I should have done long ere now. For if Feanaro was fire, then I can be ice, and ice too can burn, ice too can kill." And with no more words he withdrew his hand, and departed, and Fingon dared not stay or stop him. 

\-----

Other tales tell of what occurred in that dreadful fight, but it went unseen by any in Barad Eithel, and all that day, and the following night, a hush lay upon the citadel. Folk locked their doors and stayed inside. Mists covered the hills and an eerie silence fell. As the day dawned once more, pallid and bleak, Fingon could hear from very far away the sound of a trumpet blast, again and again. 

A rumble as of thunder followed and then a long pause. In the mist, a far cry of pain rent the air, but somehow it set Fingon's heart alive with hope once more, for that voice in pain was Morgoth's and none other. Six times more came the cry during that day, and ever and anon the thunder of Grond rolled across the lands, shaking the city walls. Fingon kept Gil-galad close by his side, and pale and silent they listened together. 

Silence fell, and then at last a final cry of pain, and the walls shook once more. A desolation came upon the mind of Fingon then, without sure cause, but he wrapped Gil-galad closely in his arms and together they waited for news. 

As night fell once more, the King of Eagles settled down on the battlements of Barad Eithel, near to where Fingon waited with Gil-galad. 

"Where is my father?" Fingon said. And as the Eagle told the full tale, Gil-galad listened with Fingon, and their tears fell together, mourning the father and grandfather they loved. 

\------

"Where now shall I seek counsel?" Fingon said to no one in particular, staring into the mirror in the King's dressing room. He was alone at last save for Gil-galad, after a long day, one of many long days occupied in governing, and was weary in ways that no battle had ever caused. Removing the crown of Finwe from his head, he laid it down, and took off the heavy robes of state, placing them carefully aside. 

Clad now only in a simple tunic and leggings, he dropped wearily onto the couch. Gil-galad, playing on the floor, took the opportunity to climb up and settle down next to Fingon, chattering about the adventures his toys had been on that day. A contest, single combat, featured heavily, and the white horse, although almost crushed beneath the feet of the beautifully carved Ent figurine, managed to overcome it with the help of a painted Eagle figure. 

Lost in thought, Fingon was only half listening, his arm around Gil-galad. Only a little while had passed by since the duel, and Fingon found that he was having to think long and hard about plans for the future. If Morgoth was so powerful that he could turn the plains of Ard-Galen all to dust and take Dorthonion, cutting him off significantly from the East and Maedhros, what hope did they have? Long or short the contest, they would all end in the same way as Fingolfin, trod underfoot by Morgoth. The peoples of the Noldor were all divided now, and Morgoth's might seemed impenetrable. 

"I must save the one good thing I can," Fingon said at last, musing under his breath as Gil-galad chattered on. A thought came to him, that he could send Gil-galad to Cirdan at the Havens of the Falas, where it would be safer than the front lines that Hithlum and Barad Eithel had effectively become. 

His heart wrenched painfully, and he tightened his grip on the small form next to him. Gil-galad paused, looking up at his father, and saw the expression on Fingon's face. 

"Ada?" he asked, but Fingon shook his head mutely, and pulled Gil-galad fully onto his lap, the white horse falling to the ground. He was so isolated now, bereft of father, sister, cousins, cut off both from his one remaining brother, and from his beloved Maedhros. How could he make it worse by sending away the one light left to him? 

And yet, how could he willingly allow that one light to remain in danger? 

"All my choices are ill," he groaned softly. Gil-galad regarded him calmly, and laid his head down against his father's shoulder. 

"You always do what's bravest," he said. "That's what Uncle Maitimo says, anyway." 

Fingon laughed a little, shaken out of his sober thoughts at the mention of Maedhros' name. "When did he tell you that?" 

"Two summers ago," Gil-galad said. "He told me about his hand, and how you rescued him from the cliffs of Thangorodrim, long ago." 

Fingon sighed, knowing that the brave choice here was not the obvious one, but the harder road, the more difficult choice. "If I'm brave, little one, can you be brave too?" 

Gil-galad flung his arms around Fingon's neck and held on tight. "I can," he said. 

Fingon took a deep breath. "I have to send you away," he began. 

Gil-galad drew back and looked up at him, tears coming into his eyes. "Ada, no," he said. 

"Shh, Ereinion, be brave, dear one, or we'll both end up in tears," Fingon said, trying to smile. Gil-galad swallowed and wiped his eyes, looking up again, worry flickering in those blue-grey eyes, so like Fingon's own. "You remember Cirdan from when he visited last year, right?"

"Yes," Gil-galad said. "He brought me that little boat to sail in the fountain. He was nice, I liked him." 

"Well, he liked you too," Fingon said. "How would you like to see where he lives, by the shores of the Sea? You could see all the boats sailing in and out of the harbour every day. And you could go to the beaches and find shells, or learn to fish. And you'd be safer there. And we can write each other letters, and I will visit when I can." 

"That sounds nice," Gil-galad said, "but I would miss you very much." 

"I would miss you too, dearest," Fingon said, burying his face in Gil-galad's hair for a long moment, trying to hold back tears, before looking up again. "Maybe it won't even be for very long. Can you do this for me, can you be brave for me there if I'm brave for you here?"

Gil-galad considered, and finally nodded quietly. 

\-----

Fingon sat alone on the side of the bed in the room that was once Gil-galad's, staring around at the detritus of hasty packing. He did not feel brave, not then, simply alone, lost, isolated unlike ever before. 

"What have I done?" he whispered softly to himself. "This is too much to bear." 

Looking down, he saw the shape of a horse on the ground at his feet, and picked it up, Gil-galad's little white horse figurine, forgotten in the rush of packing. He brought the hand that held it to his chest, and it was as if a dam had been unleashed. Breaking into passionate weeping, he threw himself down on the bed, burying his face in the pillows. He wept for his father, for his son, for his beloved, for himself, as though he would never stop. 

The storm passed after what seemed like hours; when he had wept so much that his head ached and tears no longer flowed. 

"Nienna, have mercy," he whispered to the darkness. "Send me strength, that I may endure in hope. For hope is very far from me now." 

It may have been simply the voicing of that plea, and the long-ago memory of another plea that was answered, but something within him eased. He stood, walking to the window, which looked down upon the city below, and watched people walking up and down the lighted streets. Faint and far laughter rang out, and merry voices could be heard. The city was coming back to itself again in the wake of battle, rebuilding once more. 

He looked down at the small figurine still clutched in his hand, and smiled faintly. Turning, he left the room, still holding the figure. 

The next day, he placed it in a small niche in the wall of his private study, where it remained for the rest of his life and afterward, until the walls themselves were brought down.


End file.
